


Epiphany

by Whitlinger



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Gen, Human!AU but not really, M/M, Nations dying a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-03 20:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4114294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whitlinger/pseuds/Whitlinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world had forgotten, yet they were ever-existing, omnipresent, hurling themselves into the fragile cycle of life that shaped their tragedies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Static

**Author's Note:**

> uhhh guilty pleasure fic?  
> also hello ao3 humans i am here to add to the fandom trash pile  
> don't own.

_December 1, 1918_

_Reykjavik, Sovereignty of Iceland_

"You know what this means, little brother."

"Yes, Danmörk."

"You are aware that I will no longer be providing you with financial support."

"Yes."

"You will convict your own criminals, and take the matters of corruption, trafficking, and other such issues into your own hands."

"Of course."

Denmark leaned back in his seat, blue eyes glittering. His lips were curved in his usual smile that bordered a smirk, yet they were taut in a way that suggested more of a grimace. "I'm impressed, Ice. You've matured."

A swell of pride bloomed in Iceland's chest and he curled his fingers until they dug into his palms. His blood—his people's blood—rushed hot through his veins, in the fervor of those a step away from freedom, but he kept his composure and his eyes cool, as cool as the ice he had been named for. "The contract is binding, then," he said, skipping to the point. "Is that all?"

Denmark spread his arms apart. "You are now officially a sovereign state."

The Kingdom of Iceland slid back his chair and rose to his feet, in one fluid motion. Keeping his eyes on the smooth black door behind Denmark, he moved swiftly past the other nation, taking long strides until the tip of his boot kissed the worn oakwood. The metal handle was cool against his fingers as he twisted the door ajar.

The doubt came then; the guilt and fear and uncertainty, and a sense of regret so overwhelming it almost made him look back. Almost.

"Goodbye, Denmark," Iceland said, as apathetically as he could manage, and left the room before second thoughts could seize his mind.

The war had ended two weeks ago. Iceland still woke to the smell of blood, coughing on smoke from his nightmares. The Great War had simply spluttered and died, leaving behind a cautious quiet to his land that he rather enjoyed. December frost bathed in the young light of morning glistened with shards of gold and silver, and the tips of the barren trees were fire against the blinding white winter. Some distant thunder was the only sound that interrupted the muted dawn. Iceland breathed in the chill of his country and sighed, watching as his breath clouded momentarily before dissipating into the air.

He wasn't truly independent, of course not, but he was the next best thing. He and his Danish neighbor were equals now, united under one king, side-by-side politically and—dare he hope—emotionally; perhaps in this new light his fellow nations would recognize his prominence in Scandinavia at long last.

Perhaps they would see him as one of them.

Peals of children's laughter woke the slumbering streets of Reykjavik, and Iceland himself chuckled softly at his wasted thoughts. He was barely a nation yet, unlike Norway and Sweden and all the European mainland countries whose identities and cultures were but a foreign tongue. He was a prisoner free of his chains but not his cell, and that could only be shaken open by the storm of another great war. Not that he would welcome one; Iceland preferred this fragile peace to any higher status among the nations.

The city slowly came to life at the same pace as the rising sun. It seemed only seconds before the streets were buzzing with groaning car engines, clip-clopping horses, and the music of people, his beautiful people. Rich aromas spiced the air, preying on the hungry pedestrians. At the corner bakery shop, a young lover shyly offered a bouquet of flowers to the store's owner, in exchange for a few chaste kisses and a doughnut.

Iceland had been so engrossed in studying the rebirth of his capital that he almost didn't notice the flakes peppering his skin were scalding hot instead of a stinging cold. He flinched in pain, a little too lately, and wiped the substance off his face. It came away on his fingers as dull gray powder.

Ash.

He saw the explosion before he heard it. The bakery shop at the crossroads erupted in billows of fire, instantly melting all snow within a three hundred feet radius. Something was clawing through his stomach and Iceland keeled over, screaming at the utter  _agony_  of it as all around him his city exploded, time after time after time until  _oh God he wanted to die make it **stop**._  The azure of Icelandic sky was poisoned with leaden smoke, casting heavy shadows that shifted day to night. His breathing sounded like a broken flute and his lungs were cracking, crumbling, drowning his insides with blood.

And his people. They were shrieking, their soul-wrenching wails melting into his own cries. The explosions never stopped; they echoed every scream, a  _boom_  that made his heart clench and his whole body tremble. Iceland was vaguely aware of someone's sharp fingernails digging into his arm, and being yanked down the sidewalk, the uneven surface of the ground scraping painfully at his skin. There was a monster eating him from the inside out and it tore into him, again and again and  _again_ -

When they stopped, he was jerked upright onto his knees. Iceland forced his eyes open, lashes sticky with hot tears, and took in his surroundings. The Scandinavian was in the middle of an open city square; a crowd of people encircled him, their postures stiff and unnatural. Iceland felt a thousand pairs of eyes sear holes into his shaking body, and he wilted a little more at their accusing stares.

"In the name of the Lord," he heard a voice say, "we, the people of Iceland, damn this abomination to Hell. This creature is a spawn of the Devil himself, and it is the duty of those who follow God to send it back to where it crawled to Earth."

Iceland didn't understand. Why were they treating him this way? He had not been born from the Devil; he had been born from the very people who were condemning him, from their blood and sweat and tears, from their euphoria, their passion, their desire for greatness. He suffered when his people did, loved as they loved, wept as they wept. Everything that defined him lay in their hands. Iceland opened his mouth and tried to speak, but his voice had long abandoned him and all that came out was an inaudible croak.

"Pray for God's forgiveness, monster," the same voice told him. Iceland feebly reached for the speaker, but was struck to the ground by a rough blow to his cheek. The last thing he felt was the heavy barrel of a gun pressed against his temple, harsh and unwavering and colder than death.

. . . . 

 

_Kópavogur, Republic of Iceland_

Emil was out of coffee. He stared despondently at the bottom of his mug, wondering if it was worth leaving his air-conditioned apartment for fuel enough to last him a few more hours. The afternoon light pouring through the window was glinting off his desk now. Surely only minutes ago it had been glaring at the clock on the wall.

As he worked his tired pencil across the last line of the page, Emil felt his eyelids begin to droop and pushed them back with his thumbs. The second he let go to pick up his pencil, however, immediately his eyes fell shut and he almost gave himself a concussion when his head made a beeline for the table.

No, this definitely wasn't going to work.

Pushing back his chair with a sigh, Emil groggily rose to his feet, hoping the caffeine in his blood would serve him well in the five minute walk to the café. A blast of hot air greeted him as he stepped into the heat of mid-June. The streets were oddly devoid of people for this time of the day, Emil noticed. Blame it on the weather.

The bells hanging above the glass door of the shop jingled softly in welcome as he entered its cool interior. Emil was the only customer besides a weary-looking woman with her eyes glued to a Macbook. The barista glanced up at his arrival, offering a warm smile.

"Good morning, Emil!" the café owner chirped in his Finnish accent, already typing in the college student's order. "Quite the early bird today, aren't you? Black, no sugar?"

"You know me too well, Tino," Emil said, setting a stack of coins on the counter. He frowned. "Morning?"

"Oh, my," Tino sighed, as he poured fresh coffee beans into a large grinder. "Don't tell me you worked the night away again. That can't be good for your health."

Well, that explained where everyone had gone. "College is hell. I don't think sleep is on the agenda."

"You should go out every now and then, even so," said the barista. "You're still a kid! Enjoy your youth while it lasts."

Emil's cheeks reddened. "I'm not a child, Tino. In two years this won't be the only place I'll go to for drinks."

The Finnish man laughed and placed a steaming cup in front of Emil. The bittersweet fragrance of coffee wafted into the air, making the Icelander's mouth water. "Oh, and before I forget..." Tino rummaged around the sleek silver refrigerator looming behind the counter and brought out a cheesecake dotted with plump raspberries, grinning the whole while. "Happy birthday, Emil!"

The college student blinked in surprise, abruptly finding himself out of words. Instinct made him reach for a couple more krona from his pocket, but Tino put a hand on his arm before he could dig out any money. "It's on the house, kiddo," the shop owner assured him, to which Emil muttered something about being over legal age under his breath. Tino rested his elbows on the counter and gave his customer another one of his pleasant smiles, violet eyes twinkling with mirth. "So, how old are you now, Mr. Steilsson?"

"Nineteen, I guess." The way the number rolled off his tongue engendered some sort of déjà vu at the back of his mind. Emil picked up the cake and his coffee hesitantly. "...Thanks, Tino. I really appreciate it."

Tino laughed lightly, shaking his head. "We're friends. It's no big deal."

Emil glanced out the large glass panels at the front of the café. The sun was crawling up the the steeples of the church across the street, tracing its tips with gold. Classes would start in a few hours, and he still had a paper to write. It couldn't be too long before his rambunctious neighbor rose from the sleeping dead to infect Emil's apartment with ear-splitting heavy metal, either.

"You should hurry along now," said Tino, voicing Emil's thoughts. "I didn't mean to keep you here like this. Enjoy your cake, all right?" Another beam.

Emil turned back to the Finnish barista, allowing the most minuscule of smiles to grace his lips. It was ridiculous how secretly—embarrassingly—affectionate he was of Tino. The instant they had met, he'd felt an odd connection to this good-natured, easy-going man. Something akin to brotherly love, he supposed, though he had a feeling there was more to it than what could be put into words.

"Yeah," Emil replied absently, half-occupied with his thoughts. "Yeah, I'll do that."

The woman in line behind him cleared her throat in impatience, tapping her foot to the beat of Rimsky-Korsakov's  _Flight of the Bumblebee_. Muttering an apology and quick farewell to Tino, the nineteen year old made his way past the clusters of tables and back to the world outside.

As he waited to cross the street, Emil's phone hummed urgently, causing its owner's brows to furrow in annoyance. He checked the caller ID and groaned inwardly before answering. "What do you want, Matthias?"

 _"Hey, Emmyboy!"_  The booming voice of his Danish friend blasted from the iPhone's speakers, almost drawing blood from the college student's ears.

"Jesus!" Emil moved the device a good inch or so away to save his eardrums. "Keep it down a little, will you? And what kind of nickname is that?"

Matthias laughed heartily through the phone, the music of it distorted by static. Emil had only met the eccentric Dane once, during summer break of last year when his class took a grad trip to Denmark, but he could picture Matthias's shoulders shaking as he guffawed, one hand running through a wild mane of blond hair.  _"Aw, c'mon,"_  he said between laughs.  _"It suits you, admit it. You're short, you act cool but you have the temper of a little kid...oh! Remember when you drank four shots of vodka and refused to talk to anyone but your invisible friend Mr. Puffin for the rest of the night—"_

"You can shut up now," the mortified Icelander cut in, flushing at the memory of the incident that was not there. "Why are you calling so early, anyway? It's barely five in the morning."

_"Right! Okay, so yesterday I was at the library looking up stuff for a paper when I found this really awesome book in the history section. It's basically a tabloid on WWI—y'know, the Illuminati and all those b.s. conspiracies people come up with—and you wanna guess what else is in it?"_

"What?" Emil entertained the Dane with a sigh. The red light blinked to a walking green man and he skillfully balanced his breakfast in one arm before crossing the street.

_" **You**. I swear to God, you were in there. Some Norwegian artist painted this contract being signed between Iceland and Denmark...early 1900s, I think...and that's where you were, standing behind the king of Iceland. Every last detail of you, even that weird birthmark on your arm I thought looked like a flying chicken. Can you believe it?"_

Emil opened his mouth to retort that Matthias was delusional, but the earsplitting screeching of tires drowned his words. He turned and found himself staring into the blinding headlights of a truck, so brilliant it felt as though he were looking into the sun.

Time stopped, deemed the episode insignificant, and started again.

_"Whoa, what the hell was that? Emil, you there?"_

The nineteen year old student lay broken on the cracked grey pavement, a thin trickle of blood tracing his hairline. Spilled coffee voyaged across the concrete sea before being swallowed by a blooming crimson pool. Like moths to a flame, gradually, then all at once, a ring of people began to form around the body, spurred by some morbid fascination.

Someone screamed. Someone gasped. Another choked on their bagel before dialing 911.

_"Are those sirens? Holy shit are you **okay**?!"_

Static.

. . . . 

The police arrived sooner than everyone expected, eager for anything even remotely more interesting than a convenience store heist. An ambulance followed with considerably less enthusiasm but submitted to its duty and carried the body away. For a while the audience lingered, anticipating a second climax, but the ticking seconds wound them back to their routines.

The day carried on in whispers. By noon, however, the mood had relaxed again. In the middle of small talk people would bring up the incident, and each participant in the discussion would fall into solemn quiet for a heartbeat's time. Pity that one so young would be so unfortunate.

Within 48 hours a Facebook page was made for the boy, after which it unsurprising transformed into more of social advocacy. For conversation filler, his few closest friends would chat about what they'd surprise him with when he woke up. The boy's only family, his mother, came to visit, seemingly in the constant motion of wringing her hands. Tino closed his shop for a week to stay by his side.

Thus the Icelandic boy tasted ephemeral fame. Yet none of this would ever be known to him, because from the moment fate intervened, Emil Steilsson had long since ceased to exist.


	2. Breathe

_October 1998_

_Munich, Germany_

"Gilbert."

"Gilbert, are you drunk again?"

No reply. Ludwig sighed deeply into the phone, whittled to the core by his brother's latest antics. It seemed that the self-proclaimed Prussian was more often inebriated than not in recent days.

He could hear breathing on the other side. Quick, strong breaths; those of his brother, whose rhythmic inhaling and exhaling Ludwig had memorized like sheet music. The younger of the two sat quietly at his desk, listening to the familiar cadence. He would never admit this to Gilbert—God forbid what sort of grandiose speech his brother would launch into—but the sound was calming, lending a comfort that living in this frenzied, erratic world could not offer.

Gilbert finally spoke. "Hey, bro." He slurred his words heavily, stumbling over them like a Japanese man learning English for the first time.

Ludwig glanced at the clock. It was past midnight now, as his throbbing headache and sore eyes insinuated. "Where are you?"

"Somewhere. Don't know. Don't care."

"Tell me where you are so I can pick you up."

"Uh...there's a sign here." Gilbert paused, before continuing, "It says I'm in Bar-something. Barce...loney? Lona?"

Ludwig's stomach sank. "What on Earth are you doing in Spain?"

His brother answered with a fit of jerky, uneven laughter. "God, I can't believe you fell for that. You're so naive, it's incredible." Gilbert laughed harder, interludes of hiccups slipping in between his gasps for air.

Ludwig's right eye twitched in irritation. "I don't have time for your childish jokes right now. Where are you really?"

The last of Gilbert's chortles died and he let out his breath slowly. Inhale. Exhale. "Outside Liz's place."

"All right, I'll come get you." Ludwig suppressed a yawn, massaging his temples wearily. "Just stay where you are."

The Prussian didn't hang up. Shallow breath, shaky, uncertain. "Luddy?"

"Yes?"

"Ludwig."

"I'm here, Gilbert."

"Please don't leave me."

The line went dead. Ludwig was left only the flat dial tone for company, as the room frosted over with a cold silence.

. . . .

The bartender was staring at him.

It wasn't a particularly unusual occurrence; in fact, the woman seated to his left was checking him out rather shamelessly—albeit for a different reason. Gilbert flashed her a grin and she turned back to her martini, blushing darker than her fingernails.

The trailing looks that followed him might as well have been part of his shadow. He was well aware that the common public tended to alienate those with the countenances of ghosts, and didn't mind the subtle pinches of attention that resulted from it. Only the souring pity that manifested in their eyes elicited the slightest twinge of annoyance.

Gilbert drained his glass and slammed it on the counter with a loud clunk, triggering a few glares from the other customers. He stuffed a crumpled euro in the empty glass and slid it towards the leering bartender, who flusteredly broke his gaze and pretended to focus on mixing a cocktail.

"Don't be shy, I know I'm a looker," Gilbert said to the man, the alcohol in his bloodstream erasing any trace of a filter between his brain and mouth. "Give me another one of those Irish beers. Two and I'll tip you next month's rent."

The bartender looked dubious. "Sir, you've already emptied six bottles. Are you sure you don't need me to call you a cab?"

"I'm fine," Gilbert snapped irritably. "Who are you, my mother?"

"Don't mind him," a new voice spoke, and Gilbert turned at the familiar lilt of a Central European accent. "He's even more of an ass when he's pissed drunk."

To his right, a woman in a rumpled blazer and black pencil skirt was absently swirling her beer, a curtain of long brown hair tumbling down her shoulder. Through the smooth strands he glimpsed a pair of tired green eyes accented by smoky circles. Gilbert's heart forgot to beat for just a sliver of a second, as he blurted out, "Liz?"

"Pleasure, Gil." Elizabeta lifted the rim of the glass to her lips and took a swig, before angling her head to gaze at him. The shiver of dark hair in the movement tossed the scent of her perfume up his nose, a cocktail of Hungarian flowers and spices he had no name for.

Gilbert swallowed thickly. "I didn't know you come here."

"I don't," Elizabeta said, refilling her glass. "I just had too much shit piled up for one day." She set down her bottle harshly, as if possessed by some wrathful apparition.

"Was it the stupid aristocrat again?" Shit, he should've kept his mouth shut. The goddamn beer was getting to his head.

To his surprise, Elizabeta didn't lash out. The curls at the ends of her hair bounced as she nodded. "Roderich was making a fuss about our apartment today. Said he didn't like how there was no room for his piano, how the highway was a distraction when he composed, how he wanted to move back to Austria..." She drummed her fingers on the counter for emphasis, before grabbing her bottle and taking a long, deep drink. Gilbert waited for her finish, and she continued, "Worst of all, he blames  _me_ for everything. I'm keeping him here, and if it weren't for me he could've been signed already." Elizabeta shook her head with a wry laugh. "God, the guy drives me crazy sometimes. Doesn't he know I have a job, too? It's not like I'm just around to be a pain in his ass, y'know?"

"Yeah." Gilbert stared at the bottom of his glass, counting the bubbles that crawled along its edge. He didn't trust himself to say anything else. Dammit, why did she have to be here of all times?

Elizabeta studied him, a ridge forming between her brows. "You're awfully quiet today. Aren't you going to make a jab at my boyfriend?"

He scoffed at that, his usual confidence tiptoeing back at the question. "Nah, his existence is embarrassing enough already. No need to waste any breath on the priss—though when it comes to it, my insults  _are_ pretty damn awesome." He grinned wolfishly and the Hungarian woman rolled her eyes, despite her cheeks lifting in a smile.

"Oh, please," Elizabeta spoke through curved lips, "you never change, do you?"

"That's 'cause I don't have a reason to."

At the corner of the bar, someone was strumming a Spanish guitar. The sweet notes collided into one another and wove together like the melancholic verses of a poet, coloring the stories of lovers lost and dead summer days. It was one of those tunes that everybody knew but no one remembered. For a fleeting moment, Gilbert and Elizabeta allowed the music to fill in where words should have been, suspended in each other's gaze.

"So," Elizabeta broke the silence abruptly, and he wondered if there had been any pause at all, "enough about me. What have you been up to lately?

 _Drinking like I'll be dead in a week and crying over my little brother._ "Not much. Francis found a new shady club downtown, so we hang out there sometimes."

Elizabeta rested her arms on the table and leaned toward him, green irises glinting in the buttery light of the lamps that hung over their heads. "You know, Gil, some of the stuff you say gives me the impression you've got  _way_ too much time on your hands. I've known you for three years and I still don't know what you do for a living."

"I pick up gigs here and there," Gilbert said casually, but his default grin had soured. He clumsily poured himself another drink and drained the whole glass in one gulp.

She frowned at his answer. "Come on, don't you have one steady job, at least?"

"Well…" His eyes wandered around the bar and fixed on a woman reading a thick paperback. "I'm, uh, actually a writer."

Elizabeta burst out laughing, tickling his elbow with russet curls. "You? A writer? I see why you never bothered to tell me all this time."

Gilbert scowled at her animated response. "What's wrong with writing? I have the right to express myself in prose, too."

"What do you write about, then? The legendary adventures of Gilbert the Awesome?"

"Working on that, but no." He stroked his jaw, suddenly thoughtful. "I'm in the middle of a novel."

Her laughter settled to a faint smile and Elizabeta cocked her head to the side, eyebrows raised in curiosity. "Really? Enlighten me."

Gilbert sat up straighter, cleared his throat, and began to speak in an exaggerated baritone voice. "Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lives a boy prince. He's the heir to a powerful empire, but if you met him you'd never imagine him to be."

Elizabeta snorted. "Because no one with an ego so incredibly large he can't see any sense past it could be a future ruler."

He laughed the breathy snicker that was his alone and shook his head. "Nope, the self-insert comes a little after that. Anyway, he lives with an odd bunch: a stuffy pianist, a former soldier serving as his maid, and a boy everyone thinks isn't one. Pretty weird, huh?"

She nodded, and the intrigued look her face held willed him to continue.

"So, after a while the prince falls head over heels for titty boy, but then he leaves for war and dies in battle. Now," Gilbert paused for dramatic effect and grinned, " _this_ is where yours truly saves the day."

"What a plot twist," Elizabeta remarked dryly. Her cheeks were flushed a rosy red by now, and the bottles clustered around her had multiplied significantly. "Let me guess: he's not actually dead because Sir Awesome swooped in and saved his life."

"Preferable, but not exactly; he stays dead. Instead, a brilliant warrior revered in all lands—me, obviously—stumbles upon his reincarnation and raises him in my own kingdom. When he grows up, guess who he meets? His childhood sweetheart!  _Post puberty!_ " Gilbert cackled noisily to punctuate his narration, vaguely aware of his excessively amplified storytelling. His tongue seemed have gained a pound per bottle, rivaling even Gilbird's plump mass. It was reducing his speech to somewhat slobbering.

Elizabeta didn't appear to mind; she laughed harder than the Prussian, and continued to do so even after he had run out of breath. Her emerald eyes were gleaming. It made his heart ache, seeing this rare side of her. It was an Elizabeta who was raw and rough and true, an uncut diamond in bleeding African earth, and Gilbert found this treasure over and over again yet could never make it his.

"What happens to the other people in his house?" she asked, after her laughter had subsided.

"You mean the pianist and the maid?" He allowed himself to smile, if only to sweeten the bitter tang of his words. "They got married."

"Really." Elizabeta met his crimson gaze with smoldering eyes. Her own smile was gone. "And what about the brilliant warrior revered in all lands?"

"He asked her to be his queen. Rather unawesomely, she turned him down." Gilbert's vision was blurring at the edges, but those viridescent jewels remained clear as day.

Elizabeta surveyed him for what seemed the equivalent of a million years. All of a sudden her lips quirked in a coy grin, and she moved closer until her mouth was right by his ear. She said, very softly, "Then let this queen take you to her castle."

Gilbert had no memory of how they ended up there, but the dim yellow lights were gone and everything was quiet save for the urgent sound of their breathing. The apartment was an enigma for drunk eyes, a kaleidoscope of shadows and dangerous possibilities. By the window, Roderich's piano was soaked in the glaring neons of the city.

_I shouldn't be here._

He closed the space between them and kissed her hard, knotting his fingers in her hair. The taste of beer on her lips was more intoxicating than anything he'd ever had before, and it satisfied a quench deep within him, a thirst so old he had almost forgotten it was there. Gilbert felt her arms snake around his neck and he pulled her closer against him, until he could feel the frenetic drumming of her heart that matched his own.

Elizabeta tilted her head back and he dragged his teeth along the curve of her neck, working his way to the valleys below her collarbones. She was pressed to the wall, her chest rising and falling so quickly the movements seemed to overlap. Her hands slipped under the hem of his shirt and splayed across his back, fingertips setting his skin ablaze. He tore apart the buttons of her blouse and kissed her shoulders, before hungrily moving down to the sweet dip between her breasts.

Gilbert stopped.

_You fucking_ _**idiot.** _

He jerked away from her, breathing heavily. "I can't do this."

"C'mon, Gil," Elizabeta drawled, peering at him through half-lidded eyes, "finish what you started."

Gilbert averted his gaze from her exposed chest, anchoring it instead on a crack in the wooden floor. "We're both wasted. How about we just call it a night?"

"Is this about Roderich? He's not going to be back for at least two hours."

"No, it's not Roderich." He grit his teeth, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. "Dammit, I shouldn't have come..."

"Gilbert, what the hell are you talking about?" Elizabeta stepped away from the wall and folded her arms over her open blouse. "For Christ's sake, you paid for the damn taxi!"

"I'm sorry. This was a mistake."

She stared at Gilbert in disbelief, and he felt a stab of guilt at the hurt betrayed in her eyes. "You're an asshole."

"I know, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Liz."

"Tell me, then." Elizabeta's voice was chilly. "Am I just another one of your whores?"

"What? No!" Gilbert's blood ran hot with anger at the implication. "You have a goddamn boyfriend, last I checked."

"So this  _is_  about Roderich. I'll break up with him tomorrow, if that's what you want."

"You won't. You'll wake up the next morning and regret all of this."

"Watch me."

"No, I'm not. You don't get it, do you?" The words pouring from his mouth were becoming unstoppable, and they stumbled past his lips faster than he could swallow. "You'll always go running back to Roderich, whatever I do. I know you love him. He's going to propose by next month, and you'll say yes. When next year rolls around, both of you will be gone and I'll still be left in this shithole."

She gave him a long, stony look, branding his skin with unspoken words he was too afraid to hear. "You're insane."

Gilbert laughed, but the sound was cold and brittle and shattered when it hit the air. "You know what? I think I am. It'd be a miracle if I weren't, watching this sick cycle until who fucking knows when. It doesn't matter where I go; you always find a way into my life. Maybe it's a constant in all this fucked up mess, I don't know, but it hurts like hell, all right?" His voice broke. There was a hurricane in his head, and it tore through every wall and boundary he had so meticulously built over time. "I can't stop it. I can't fucking do anything, because you  _don't remember."_ He took a step towards her and she simultaneously moved back, narrowing her eyes. "You don't remember, Liz. You never will. I'm just going to be stuck here for eternity, wondering what the hell I'm still doing in this shitfest of a world."

Elizabeta was seething, her fists clenched tight and knuckles white as bone. "Get out of my house," she said coldly.

Gilbert obeyed. He picked up his coat, which had been tossed to the corner, and swung open the door. As soon as he stepped outside, he heard it slam behind him.

The night was just shy of winter, and it shook Munich in great gusts of wind that tasted of coming rain. A biting cold stole into the gaps in his clothing and curled around his arms and stomach. He stared up at the dark clouds in the sky, murky like the cream in Ludwig's morning coffee, and thought about the parade tomorrow. It would march on anyway, despite the storm that was certain to erupt. There wasn't much that could smother the fire of German pride.

At this hour, the crisscrossing roads were half-asleep, free of the usual thudding bass from the cars of obnoxious teenagers with their windows rolled down. Gilbert watched the river of concrete for any rides home, but soon gave up after finding his pockets had so little to offer they put Ebenezer Scrooge to shame.

He let out a sigh. Bit his lip hard, drew blood. As Gilbert dug out his phone to dial Ludwig's number, the rain made itself known in a soft drizzle. It crept into the night soundlessly, like an age-old ghost who had forgotten its own name.

. . . .

Ludwig made buttermilk waffles for breakfast, topped with sautéed eggs and sausage guarded by fresh mugs of hot black coffee. Gilbert wolfed everything down as if he hadn't seen food in years, thanking the stars for that summer his brother spent eight weeks at a cooking school in Italy.

"I'm heading out," the younger Beilschmidt said, as Gilbert was catching the last drops of bitter liquid from his cup. Ludwig was already dressed in a long gray coat, his school bag slung over his right shoulder as he stood soldier-like by the front door.

Gilbert froze. The coffee rolled like quicksilver down his throat.

"I won't be long. Just running a couple errands at the college." Ludwig's eyes shifted to the kitchen entrance. "Do we still have milk? I can stop by the—"

" _Don't!"_

Blond eyebrows sank to meet bewildered blue eyes. "What do you mean, 'don't?'"

Gilbert took a breath. "I-I just don't want you to miss the parade. You're allowed a break every now and then, y'know." He cracked a smile, but it was like stretching fifty rubber bands across his teeth.

Ludwig didn't appear to believe anything coming out of his brother's mouth. "Gilbert, I'll be back before the drums start." He scanned the other's face, his brows drawing together in obvious concern. "Are you sure you don't need to lie down? You were fairly hungover when you woke up."

The memory of last night's drinking left an acrid taste in Gilbert's mouth. "I'm fine," he snapped, harsher than he meant. He tried for another grin and the corners of his lips trembled with the effort. "Come on, Luddy. Do you really trust me with the house?"

Ludwig gave Gilbert a strange look, but relented and slipped off his bag, returning it to its hook by the door. "All right, you win. Everyone from the college will mostly likely be at the parade, anyway." He approached the dining table and made to grab a plate of waffles, but stopped at something and frowned. "Gilbert, your hands are shaking."

Gilbert looked down at his empty mug. He was gripping the handle so tightly his skin at the knuckles had gone paper-white, and blue veins showed through the back of his hand. The black ceramic was slick with sweat. "It's a little chilly in here," he lied. Hastily, he set down the mug and wiped his hands on his jeans.

"Is it? I'll get the heater running, then." Ludwig moved to the control panel on the wall and twisted some of the knobs. After a moment he paused, rubbing his chin. "Hmm, it doesn't seem to be working. You sit tight, I'll go check the fuse box."

"Don't worry about it, I'll live," Gilbert assured his brother with a wave of his hand. "I'm a Siberian ghoul, remember? The cold doesn't bother me."

Ludwig exhaled heavily through his nose. "I'm twenty, you  _dummkopf_. That stopped working thirteen years ago. Anyhow," he glanced over at the other, "you're still shivering. I don't want you catching a cold."

"Whatever you say, Mom."

After Ludwig disappeared into their laundry room, Gilbert slumped down in his seat and slowly let out his breath. His ears were ringing and it felt as though an air raid was underway in his head. The Prussian rose unsteadily and made his way to the kitchen sink, where he splashed his face with cold water. Beads of water collected at the tips of his bangs, quivering before they ceded to gravity. Gilbert counted the sounds the droplets made as they hit the metal sink.  _Plop. Plop. Plop._ Three plops for three seconds.

 _Fffffft._ The sound was muffled but distinct, and it turned Gilbert's blood to ice.

"G-Gilbert?"

 _FFFFFFT._ Devil's laughter.

"Gilbert, I-I think the fuse is going to—"

 _ **BOOM.**_ Gilbert sprinted to the laundry room door and wrenched at the door knob, but by some cruel twist of fate it had been locked. "Luddy?  _Ludwig!"_

Crackling. A burst of heat, raging against the cement prison it shared with a German university student. Gilbert rammed the back of his fist into the wooden frame as thick smoke pooled at his feet. "I can't get in, goddammit!"

He heard Ludwig fumble with the door knob, a series of futile attempts that were painfully short-lasting. "I-It won't budge. I think it's stuck—" The younger Beilschmidt was seized by a fit of coughing, the sound of it clawing Gilbert's own lungs to shreds. "C-Can't breathe..."

"Just hold on! I'm gonna kick it down, okay?" Gilbert stepped back and struck the door with the bottom of his foot. It shuddered but remained fully intact.  _You don't have shoes on, dumbass!_ He raced to the entrance of their apartment and shoved on a pair of thick-soled boots before hurrying back, just in time to hear his younger brother scream.

 _Nonononononono_ —

Gilbert kicked at the door with all the force he could muster, crimson bleeding into the edges of his vision. It gave away on his third try and he was enveloped in a suffocating black haze that exploded out of the room. Fire flashed like lightning in the billowing smoke, as showers of sparks singed the hair off his arms. He could still hear Ludwig's tormented cries over the thundering flames, a sound that made Gilbert's heart twist into itself in an effort to stop beating and frost crawl through his stomach.

He felt Ludwig's form emerge in the dark, frail and powerless in the midst of a terrible destiny. Gilbert ran his fingers along the contours of his brother's face, ensuring his presence— _he's here, he's okay, you haven't lost him_ —before hoisting Ludwig onto his back. The three yards before the nebulous light from the doorway yawned into three miles as Gilbert staggered towards it, but he would carry his little brother a thousand miles more if it was necessary.

The entire apartment was filled with smoke. It forced itself into Gilbert's lungs and burned his throat as he moved along the wall, feeling for a door. Hallway. Kitchen counter. Living room. Glass.

Gilbert kicked the balcony door open and stumbled into the cold October morning, gasping for the sweet nectar of fresh air. He laid Ludwig against the railing and knelt over him, gingerly wiping the soot from his brother's face as he pulled out his phone.

"You'll be okay, Luddy," he said, as Ludwig coughed and shuddered at Gilbert's touch. "An ambulance will be here soon, and you'll be just fine." His fingers came away warm and wet with blood. God, there was so much blood.

"G-Gilbert..."

"Shh. Don't talk." Gilbert took off his jacket and wrapped it around Ludwig, whose lips had turned a bruised blue. The sound of Ludwig's labored breaths was painful to hear, as if he were breathing through shards of broken glass.

"When they fix you up," Gilbert said, rubbing his hands up and down the younger Beilschmidt's arms to ease his shivering, "I'll go buy the milk, okay? There will never be a shortage of milk in our fridge ever again, I promise. I'll buy enough to last until spring."

"I-It'll...spoil...you dunce," Ludwig croaked, before falling into a fit of spluttering. Gilbert wrapped the jacket, now soaked through with blood and sweat, tighter around his brother.

"Then you're gonna have to help me finish it." He could hear sirens now; they were very faint, barely a whisper in the wind, but they were there. "Hey, do you remember the last time we went grocery shopping together? I'd left the laundry detergent on the roof of the car and forgotten about it, and we just drove home like that. We got so many stares on the way back, I was starting to think we were driving on the wrong side of the road. But the truly amazing part was, the detergent didn't fall off. Hell, it didn't even budge." Gilbert laughed softly, shaking his head. "You're such a good driver, Luddy, you'd be trusted with the Queen of England."

In the distance, the drums had begun. Softly at first, slowly, then all at once. It reverberated through every corner of Munich and thudded in Gilbert's own chest, the anthem of the German soul. "Luddy, do you hear that?" Gilbert said, as the city throbbed with fervid thunder. "They're singing for you, West. They're all singing for you."

Ludwig had stopped shivering. His eyes were fixed on the sky, two brilliant pools of blue that stood out vividly in the dull palette of the world. Gilbert leaned in and pressed his fingers under Ludwig's jawline. After a moment he pulled away, sitting back against the metal railing with a long, ragged sigh. Tilting his head back, Gilbert watched as heavy gray clouds rolled across the sky and rumbled in the fury of a beast that had been disturbed in its slumber, daunting and elegant like waves of the sea.

. . . .

_7 years later_

"Are you used to moving around so much?"

"Yeah, why not? It's boring to stay in one place all the time."

Ada smiled at this reply, tucking her chin in her palm. "So you're not one for settling down, huh? What about a family?"

Prussia laughed. "Kids? Nah, not for me. They sound like a handful."

"A spouse, then? In a previous call we made to you, you mentioned the name Elizabeta Héderváry."

His grin wavered. "She was just a friend. Liz died three years ago in a car accident."

The receptionist sat up at this, casting him the pitying eyes he had long grown weary of. "I'm really sorry for your loss, Gilbert."

"Don't worry about it. I'm used to it now."

Ada's eyebrows scrunched together and she tilted her head in puzzlement. "Used to what?"

The soft click of an opening door interrupted the low hum of the AC and a smartly dressed man stepped out. "Mr. Beilschmidt? We're ready for you now."

Prussia rose to his feet and stretched, cracking the bones in his lower back. He sent a lopsided smile to Ada, who was staring at him with a sort of awed bewilderment. "Well, it was nice talking to you, Ada," he said. "Enjoy the rest of your break."

The interior of the office was a few notches warmer than the waiting room. Posters of beaming children and step-by-step guides to childcare covered the walls, crowding around a large window. The man, or Mr. Herschel judging by his name tag, seated himself behind a large mahogany desk and gestured at a cushioned chair for Prussia to do the same.

"So, Gilbert," Mr. Herschel said, as Prussia made himself comfortable, "how are you feeling?"

"Awesome," Prussia replied, lips quirked in his usual easy grin. "I mean, I just found out there's a kid out there who shares  _my_  beautiful genes."

The man merely nodded at this answer as he brought out a file and shifted through the papers. "You seem pretty confident about this new responsibility for someone who marked a "0" for experience with children."

"Why wouldn't I be? He'll be awesome like me, so there's nothing to even worry about."

Mr. Herschel regarded the Prussian with a bemused smile, setting the files down on the desk. "You know, there's a lot more to being a guardian than you may think. You look barely out of college yourself, Gilbert."

Prussia put a hand to his heart with a wry smirk. "How flattering. I do believe I age rather well."

The sound of two sturdy knocks on the office door drew Mr. Herschel to his feet. "Well, then," he said, "are you ready to meet your younger brother?"

As the door creaked open, a young boy of seven or eight stepped in cautiously, followed by a woman who laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. The boy had pale blonde hair falling in neat bangs across his forehead and cornflower blue eyes that darted warily about the room. His gaze first rested on Mr. Herschel, who offered the child an encouraging nod, and then on his future guardian.

Prussia rose from his chair and faced the boy's wide, curious blue eyes. "Hello, Ludwig," he said, with a time-worn smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you at last."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was a beast to write so glad i'm done oh my god  
> uh anyway the plotline is basically an excuse for me to tie a bunch of different au's together.  
> see you guys in the 1920s

**Author's Note:**

> updates every blue moon


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